


Sound symbolism

by pithyPrestidigitator



Series: Onomatology [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Molestation, Objectification, Obsessive Behaviour, Stockholm Syndrome, all the same things from the last one, dave's pov is waaaaaaaay creepy, just saying, unwanted physical contact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pithyPrestidigitator/pseuds/pithyPrestidigitator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2:</p>
<p>Your name is Dave Strider and you just might be crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Why are titles always the hardest thing to come up with?
> 
> Original text (ongoing): http://homesmut.livejournal.com/15023.html?thread=31239343#t31239343

**Your name is Dave Strider and you just might be crazy.**

Well, that's what a lot of people who's opinions don't matter like to tell you anyway. Heh. But seriously, some form of mild hysteria is pretty much the only explanation for the situation you stupidly managed to place yourself in.

\---

Last night had certainly started out normally enough. Bro and yourself had just finished one of your rare joint ventures. Well, you had finished. He was off doing whatever it was he did to with chick before he was done while you quietly enjoyed a smoke around the corner. It was your usual ritual after a successful night. Hell, if someone were to look up serene in the dictionary right then, they'd find a picture of you because not even the brisk air biting through your thin jacket was enough to bring you down from your high.

"S-sorry. Didn't -heh- didn't mean to, you know, interrupt. I'll, uhm, just...leave then..." There was a voice echoing down the alleyway, rudely shaking you from your stupor, and it certainly didn't belong to your Bro. Lord knows that bastard would never apologize for any reason.

You stamp out your cigarette and round the corner to find your brother staring down what your best guess tells you is some kid who had the misfortune of choosing this way home. He looked nervous, but then you'd have to be a pretty big idiot not to notice something up, and you know if he decided to bolt there was no way Bro'd be able to catch him before he made it back to the main street. So you stepped in and the kid was slumped in your arms before he knew what hit him.

Bro wanted to gut him and move on. It was the sensible thing to do. He was silent but not particularly thrilled when you blurted out that you wanted to keep him.

\---

You still aren't sure what possessed you to make such a silly spur-of-the-moment decision. Sure, the threat the boy posed is just as neutralized with him here with you as it would've been if you'd left him splattered back in the alley and he had certainly looked pretty enough, but...

At the time, the plan had been to have a little fun then dump him like a pile of rags once he began to get boring, but now that you've got him, trussed up and packed neatly away in the little room at the end of the hall, you realize that you don't actually know what kind of "fun" you want to have. You've never done anything like this with a boy before. You've never done anything like this with anyone before.

What the hell _are_ you doing?


	2. Chapter 2

**Your name is Dave Strider and dammit why is this so hard?**

You've been standing outside the door for the better part of twenty minutes now and you're still no closer to a plan of action. But you've done enough pussy-footing around, it's time to man up and bite the bullet. With a growing feeling of trepidation you push open the door-

to find him sprawled out on the floor like a some sort of worm. Seriously. What the fuck. That can't be comfortable at all and he just looks so pathetic and lost as he stares up at you that it almost breaks your heart. As you move to lift him back on to the bed (god he's sturdier than you remember), you entertain the idea of keeping him here like a little pet. Some sort of exotic bird for you to come and look at whenever you please. 

So maybe you don't want him frightened of you then. "Sorry I gotta keep you wrapped up like this doll," you keep your voice soft and your hands gentle as you check to make sure he didn't injure himself when he threw himself off the bed like some kind of circus monkey or whatever. "Just can't have you running off and spilling what you saw to the nearest Johnny Law, you dig? And it'd have been such a shame to just toss a pretty piece like you out like yesterday's paper."

You're obviously not as good at this keep-people-from-freaking out thing as you thought because as soon as you get the tape of his mouth he spits and curses. Dammit, you were trying to be the nice guy here so where does this little shit get off yelling at you like that? You keep the image of him coughing up blood on the floor as you leave him there and it's enough to calm you down a bit.

It's all good, you tell yourself. If he doesn't want to play nice then you won't either.

\---

You visit him a few days later with some leftover chinese. You're not particularly happy with him after the act he put up last time, but you didn't go through all this effort just to let him starve to death. Not this early. You want to break him, you think. You want him on his knees and begging. You want his unconditional obedience. Yeah. Fuck birds, when you're done he'll be sitting at your feet like a dog.

He doesn't look thrilled to see you. The food is another story. "Hungry?" He doesn't speak (maybe he's afraid of getting hit again, smart boy) just nods and licks his lips and is it weird that you find it kinda hot? You think you know just how to begin his training. "Tell you what, babe, you wrap that pretty little mouth of yours around my cock and I'll give you all the food you want. Deal?" 

When he predictably refuses you just laugh. He probably thinks he's so tough standing up to you. "Before long you'll be begging for it. Just like the others." So you've never seen anyone in this particular situation before. So what? He doesn't know that. Besides, you might not be an expert on these things, but you've been around the block enough to know people'll do anything if they're desperate enough.

You can wait. You've got all the time in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Your name is Dave Strider and you're winning.**

The next time you come back you know you've got him. It's been over a week now, there's no way he'd be able to hold out much longer. He looks up at you from his spot on the bed, eyes dull and listless. "Well aren't you looking well today, eh, kitten?" You run a hand up his collarbone before wrapping it around his neck. You don't squeeze hard, just enough to make sure he's paying attention while you speak. "You really oughta learn to be nicer to people, hun. Maybe if you do, maybe if you get a little gratitude for the work I had to go through getting you here into your system you won't have to worry about getting this hungry again. Sound like a plan?"

You aren't completely sure he's listening. His gaze is fastened beyond you, on the bag your holding at your side. Tilting his head, you meet his line of sight and smile a smile that's all teeth. "Remember the deal from last time, kitten? Think you're ready to get on with it?" He just nods and it's a good enough answer for you because you want this.

His knees clatter harshly against the ground as you yank him forward and then you're making it happen. He's not particularly good at it, he's all bits of teeth and his mouth and tongue work around you with all the enthusiasm of a jock in a library, but none of that matters. What's important is that it proves you're the one in charge. His eyes are closed and it upsets you a little because you want him to watch as you use him. But there'll be time for that later. Right now, he's submitting like the bitch he is and the thought's enough to have you seeing stars in no time.

When you let him go, he collapses into an unceremonious heap, coughing and trembling, and you're quite pleased with yourself and him as you rub his back. "Good boy," you croon and he whimpers into the ground, "After all the trouble you caused you deserved a little punishment, didn't you? Don't you see how much easier it is when you listen to me?"

He's unresponsive as a doll when you pull him into your lap but when you hold up the food in front of him he eats it sloppily from your hand like an eager little puppy.

So yeah, you think you could get used to like him like this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Your name is Dave Strider and you feel so...conflicted.**

Your poker face has always been a part of you, like your pale skin, blonde hair, and freaky eyes, and you don't drop it for anyone. Not for the people you pass on the street, not for the crying whores you take apart, not even for your Bro. But this kid does weird things to your head. You don't care if he sees beyond your mask or not, in fact, you like it better when he knows just what's on your mind. You don't understand these feelings, they make you uncomfortable (although discomfort is one thing you don't let him know is bothering you), but maybe it's just...because his reactions are so interesting. Yeah. That's what you're gonna go with.

\---

 

He's a smart kid. Learned real quick that it's much better for his health if he keeps you happy. But that doesn't mean he's out of the business of making dumb decisions quite yet. 

Today you undid the tape binding his arms, you figure it can't be good for a person's health to be stuck in that position for too long, but instead of thanking you or some shit like that he bolted, scrabbling at the door and making it a fair distance down the hall before you manage to get a grip on him. The last few weeks of semi-starvation haven't been kind to him and it hardly takes any effort at all to drag him kicking and screaming back to the room. It takes slightly more to throw him down and hit him until the screaming stops.

\---

Later on you feel bad about it. You aren't sure why and it worries you. You don't feel sorry for your actions, it's not in your nature. Besides, it isn't your fault he went and did what he did, dammit! He knew the consequences for acting up. He deserved what he got. Still, it makes you uneasy to think of how you left him, slumped against the wall and red, so red. And even though everything that makes you you is yelling to forget about him and go watch tv or something it doesn't stop you from going back to check on him with the first aid kit.

He looks worse than when you last saw him, face bloody and swollen, and a part of you that you didn't know existed is breaking inside because _you_ did this. Meant for this to happen. You mutter apologies as you patch him up as best you can and then come back with a pint of ice cream because you're sure it's the only thing he'd be able to eat right now with his face all our of sorts like that and ice cream makes things better, right? And you need to make this better so he knows how sorry you are. 

You spend the next few days fussing about him like a mother hen but it's still a week before the swelling goes down enough for him to fully open those pretty blue eyes again.

It's the first apology of many.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray for disjointed scenes!

**Your name is Dave Strider and you don't think you can imagine life without him.**

He's become a constant in your life, one of the few relationships you have that you put any real effort into. You aren't entirely sure he sees what the two of you have quite that way yet, but he'll come around. You just have to give him enough time. 

\---

Beyond your perfunctory visits to keep him fed and clothed, you like to see go see him whenever you've had a particularly stressful day. He's always more than willing to let you settle him in your lap, silent and shaking, while he listens to you gossip and complain and spill your secrets into him like he's some sort of diary. Or maybe a stuffed animal considering how nicely he fits into your arms.

You already know as much about him from going through his stuff as you care to like his name, address, a few miscellaneous interests, and some of his more serious allergies (although he told you these back when he was still talking regularly). Really, what else could matter?

Still, it's only fair that you tell him about yourself. You desperately want to have things in common so he'll stop sulking and talk to you like a normal person but you can't seem to find anything. He doesn't like your music, doesn't laugh at your jokes, and absolutely hates it when you visit him after a "job" still wet with blood to fill him in on all fun he missed.

Being patient is fucking hard.

\---

Sometimes he does manage to talk back at you, although the things he has to say are never very interesting. It's always "stop, no, please," with him mixed in with the occasional whisper of "don't touch me," whenever your hands stray beyond his shoulders to more intimate spots of his body. But it's cute how he pretends he has any say in what you do.

You loom over him and let him know he's yours over and over as you run your hands lightly over his legs, his sides, his chest, his face and tell how him beautiful he looks as he stares at you with his eyes wide and ever so blue. His teeth are worrying marks into his bottom lip and it's just so damn cute.

When you finally work up the nerve to press your lips against his for the first time he flinches back but you just ghost endearments over his skin and tighten your grip on his neck until tears appear in the corner of his pretty eyes and then he's nice and compliant in your arms once more.

 

\---

"I'm not gonna abandon you, babe."

His face is buried in your shirt and he's falling apart in your arms while you mumble soothing things into his hair. In one hand you clench a clipping from today's newspaper, the one about how he's all alone and no one's coming for him.. You think he might finally be getting it. He might finally understand that you're all he has now, strong and steadfast as a rock, and he's yours.

You've never been happier.


	6. Chapter 6

**Your name is Dave Strider and you think you might be in love.**

He's such a good boy now. When you enter the room he sits up properly to greet you instead of curling into a ball against the wall, and when you touch him he presses into it like he's afraid you won't be there if he doesn't. He let's you hold him, pet him, feed him, touch him, make him touch you whenever and however you want. It's a wonderful change of pace from your earlier relationship.

\---

If there's one thing you can't stand it's how sad he looks all the time. His eyes are blue, blue as the ocean, and they make such a wonderful contrast against his dark skin. Or at least they would if they weren't always so blurry and red from all the crying he does. When he looks at you his eyes ought to sparkle like fucking sapphires and-

god, just the thought of those bright eyes of his squinting up (because you broke his glasses the last time you hit him and Bro hasn't gotten around to fixing them yet) while he works his mouth around you just like you taught him is enough to make you hard and it isn't long before you guide one of his hands into your pants because it's really difficult to think about things, let alone negative shit, with someone touching you like this.

Which gives you an idea.

\---

You put your plan into action the next day. It isn't hard to maneuver him into position, he's so docile now that he falls back onto the bed and let's you climb on top without protest. There's no resistance as you claim his lips and push his shirt up and over his head and run your hands down his chest before moving lower and, yeah, this is an excellent plan. When you brush against him through his pants his body tenses and his hands move from his sides to your arms. "Oh, no. No, no, nonononopleaseno." He's such a tease pleading like that and when you reward him by grinding your palm harder against him he rewards you with a gasp, hands alternatively digging into your skin and beating weakly against your chest.

He wants it just as bad as you do. You know he does, you can feel him stiffening under your ministrations. It's obvious from all the blushing he's doing that he's just shy is all. But you can't do what you need to with his fists flailing like that so you grab his wrists and bind them to the headboard with your belt in one smooth motion. "You gotta calm down, babe. Don't you worry your pretty little head off. I'm gonna make you feel good." He's still thrashing around, but with his arms out of the way it's easy to get the rest of his clothes off. Easy to position yourself just right between his legs.

You take your time exploring him because you said you were gonna have him feeling nice and that requires you to put forth more effort than a half-assed hand job. So you search out all the hidden spots on his body that make his cries of "godnonostopno," break off into choked gasps, all the spots that make his back arch and his toes curl and his hips buck. By the time he goes off in your hand he's a mess, dripping with sweat and panting your name.

When you're finished he seems to sink into the mattress and _fuck is he crying?_ This wasn't what was supposed to happen at all. There are tears streaming down his face and his shoulders shudder violently from the sobs he's trying so hard to keep in. You don't understand what he could be so upset about. Who cries after something like that? You certainly aren't! Maybe you hurt him somehow... Shit. You place a hand on his arm to get a better look at him, check him for marks you didn't mean to leave, but the moment you touch him he begins to wail and seems to shatter into a gasping, sobbing mess twisting in on itself. All you can do is hold him down and wait until the crying stops and he's silent in your arms once more.

\---

You must have done something wrong the first time because when you try again a week later (second time's the charm, eh?) he comes into your hands with a muffled gasp and a glassy stare and then, sans the waterworks, leans against you as you cuddle with him beneath the sheets.


	7. Chapter 7

**Your name is Dave Strider and you wish you could get your Bro to understand**

You don't like discussing personal things with Bro, especially not relationship related things, but he keeps hanging around asking you all sorts of questions. So you think you're in love, huh, kid? Do you even know what that means? What makes you think he likes you like that?

God, he never lets up.

He can't help it, you know he can't. Even after all these years, he's still hung up on that pretty green-eyed boy he fell in love with. The one that ran off with some chick and broke his heart. You know it didn't work out and you're sorry for him and all that jazz, but jeez, he really just needs to get over it already and stay the hell out of your business.

\---

"Do you even know his name, little man?" The question catches you off guard. Of course you know the kid's name, you totally saw it on that iD you shredded. Not to mention he says it all the time like he's some sort of pokémon. It's like J-whatever. Jason or Jean or something like that. Some boring, common name that isn't worth the time it takes to say aloud because it's so dull. Your boy deserves to be called something better. You just haven't thought of what yet.

"Course I know what it is." You waste no time in replying, but you don't think Bro's buying it. What business of his is whether you know it or not? "Why the fuck do you care?"

He gives a noncommittal grunt before standing. "How's he s'pposed to love ya if ya won't even talk to him right?" With that the conversation's over. Bro leaves you glaring daggers at his back as wanders out of the room do whatever it he's does when he's not with you.

\---

How dare he? Bro has no right, no right whatsoever to question the feelings you and your babe have for each other. The two of you are happy together, dammit! Still, you can't help but feel a twinge of panic shoot through you. What if you're wrong and he doesn't love you, doesn't even like you? What if he hates you? Fuck. You storm down the hall. You have to see him, have to get this crippling doubt out of your head.

The door slams open to show him scrambling into a sitting position. You close the door a bit more gently, and try your best to stay calm as you fix your eyes on him. "Hey, babe."

He concerned you can tell, those big teeth of his are already biting marks into his lower lip as he tries to work out his next move. "Hello, Dave." God, you love the way your name sounds when he (John. You're pretty sure his name was John.) says it. The shivers it sends down your back are more than enough to brighten a few of the darker clouds in you head.

But you still haven't forgotten the reason you're here. "You love me right, babe?" Ugh, there's a shaky quality to you voice right now and it upsets you, makes you sound weak. He looks surprised, his mouth opening and closing like some sort of fish. Dammit, that isn't the response you want and you can't stop your expression from darkening. Why isn't he saying anything? "I mean, I take good care of you right?"

Your hands are clenching at your sides and it doesn't escape his notice. You can see his gaze flickering from them to your face and back again and then he's talking, though the words are stuttered a bit too quickly for your liking. "O-oh. Oh, yes, c-course I do." He laughs, a strained, high-pitched thing, and stumbles towards you with a smile plastered on his face that you imagine is adoring. "I do, really." And then he's got his hands on your arms and his head on your shoulder and he's telling you just what you need to hear. "Love you, I mean. You're the...the best, Dave."

All the tension bleeds out of you as you wrap your arms around him, ignoring his momentary flinching. He loves you. Of course he does. How could you have been stupid enough to let Bro try to convince you otherwise? "Just making sure, hun. Heh." You pull him closer against you, burying your face in his hair. "I love you too, baby. You're my sweet, sweet baby." 

He lets out a soft breath, almost like a sigh.

"Y-yeah, yeah I'm your baby."

Then the two of you are back on the bed and you spend the rest of the night proving just how strong your love is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Your name is Dave Strider and though you can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, you can't say you aren't pleased.**

All the fight has gone out of him, not that there was ever that much there to begin with. Not that this is much of a surprise. After all, the two of you are in love so it's not like you have that much to fight about. There's a strong, passionate bond between you both, you can feel it. And you know he feels it too because when you describe it to him he murmurs his assent into your neck as you hover over him.

\---

Beneath you is where he belongs, yes. It gives you such a thrill to see him all tied up and helpless against your whims. Not that you'd ever do anything untoward while you've got him like this; he trusts you far too much.

Mostly you like to look at him. He's just so, so pretty and you know you're so very lucky to have him with you. So lucky to stare into the vivid blue of his eyes, starkly contrasted against the dusky olive of his skin. So lucky to cover his soft mouth with your own and run your tongue along the slight overbite contained within, to trace lazy paths along the edge of his strong, square jaw with your teeth, to experience the sensation of his body, warm and plaint against yours. He's a bit thinner than he was at first, most of the softness around his arms and middle has melted away through some combination of stress and a lack of eating well, but you'll change that. 

So lucky to cover him in your marks, signs of your possession. Like the small, white scar bisecting his left eyebrow, a remnant of the time you cracked his head into the corner of the bed for cursing at you, or the rough, lighter scabs criss-crossing his hands from the few times he'd tried to fight back physically (or was it to defend himself?) and wound up slamming them into the wall, floor, etc. Most of the other marks are of an unfortunately less permanent nature, such as the dark, mottled spots decorating his torso from all the times you've held, bitten, sucked a little too roughly. 

Of course, he doesn't mind these, he wouldn't make such delicious noises while you applied them if he did.

\---

Sometimes you find him crying and it confuses you. Find him forcing great, heaving sobs from his lips and scratching weakly at his head, neck, chest as he twists beneath the sheets like a wounded animal. It pains you to see him when he's like this, lost and broken and so, so sad.

Even after all this time you still don't know what's eating him up so harsh inside. But then, he can't explain it either and you're far too chivalrous to try and force an answer out of him. Instead, you just hold him tight and let him cling to you with all the desperation of a drowning man until the tremors stop and he manages to look up at you, puffy eyes wide and expectant. 

You know what he wants. He wants you to force him down. He wants you to grip him tight enough to bruise him and use him, possess him, control him, tell him what to do because he just doesn't want to think anymore and this suits you just fine. He wants you, _needs_ you. You're always more than willing to give him this. It's the least you can do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Your name is Dave Strider and you're pissed.**

It happens every so often. The chick you bring home won't be a screamer or pleader or some other pleasant thing, oh no, she'll be a real fighter. 

Most of them start out this way, of course, thinking they can curse a blue streak and strain against the thick, leather straps holding them in place until they break. Thinking they can stare you down and threaten you will all kinds of "when they catch you you'll hang" nonsense as though they weren't the one bound and helpless before your wrath and blades.

The important thing is that they break in the end.

But not those few stubborn bitches like the one you have now. They hang onto that damnable rebellious streak all the way to their last breath instead of begging, begging, begging you for mercy. Don't they see they're ruining the magic of this shit? Don't they see what they're doing to you? You need to have them bleeding and crying for their lives. You need them sobbing under the realization that you're in charge of everything now, that you're judge, jury, and executioner and you've found their life lacking and now it's time to carry out the sentence, baby. You need this. _NEED IT._ And no stupid bitch it going to take this from you, dammit! 

So maybe there's a little bit of fire pulsing through your veins as you exit the room. It's certainly not your fault you're upset! But you know you can't stay any longer, not when you're angry. Anger ruins everything. You'll come back and finish her later. Yeah, maybe you'll even get lucky and the little break you're taking will be enough to tear that smug little attitude right out of her skull.

You just need something -anything- to calm you down, soothe this beast before you go completely apeshit. Something, or someone. That's why you swiftly find yourself outside his door.

He glances up as you slip inside and even though you know your face is as impassive as a brick, even though you know all this emotional turmoil boiling inside your head is contained, you know he knows something's bothering you. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his head cocks to the side as he takes in the sight of you, in the worried expression on his face and the way he gently asks, "What's wrong, Dave?"

You fall into his arms. "Oh, baby, you don't understand..." He doesn't, but you try your damnedest to make him. You tell him everything, and you cling to him while you do because it's just so wonderful to have someone to confide in, who cares about your feelings. Someone warm and soft and oh so perfect.

At some point you become vaguely aware that he's saying something back to you. Something about the horribleness of it all, how "you're just the best, Dave," and you don't deserve to be treated like that, no, not at all. 

A small part of you wonders maybe, just maybe...

"Hey, babe, how'd you like to help me with a little something?" His eyes blink rapidly in confusion. It's not often you ask him for help, and on the rare occasions you do it's almost always just used as a roundabout way of asking for something sexual. Not that this changes his response in the slightest.

"Anything for you, Dave." 

That's exactly what needed to hear. With a smile, you lead him up and away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Your name is Dave Strider and you're buzzing with excitement as you lead him down the hall.**

You've been wanting to share this with him for a while now. "This," of course, being the radsick thrill of the kill. Not to mention you're gonna hear the end of that stuck up, rebel bitch. You'll be killing two birds in one hit here. Fuck, you couldn't ask for a better bonding experience. It's going to be wonderful, you can feel it.

With this in mind, you stop at the end of the hall. He's clinging to you, has been since you left his room, glancing warily at the door. "This is gonna be great, babe," your voice is soft enough to get him to relax against you. Can't have any fun if he's wound up like a top. One of your arms snakes around him as you slowly open it to reveal the room within.

"O-oh," he stiffens against you and you know he's seen it. Not that it's hard to miss, the slab's set up right there in the center of the room and that girl and the mess she's made is the only source of color in the otherwise sterile environment. You might not be the neatest guy, but you're always careful to keep this room bright and clean.

You lean in until your breath is ghosting lightly over his ear. "What'cha think, babe?" You keep your voice down low, no need to alert that bitch to your presence just yet. It's too amusing to watch her squirm, even if you aren't sure where she found the burst of energy necessary to move like that. He's silent and trembling at your side, wide eyes glued to the scene in front of him and, god, you want this so much.

His hands rush up to cover his mouth, and he barely manages to breathe a soft, "N-no, no I can't. I c-can't do this," before he attempts to back out of the room. But you're right there behind him, hands digging into his upper arms.

"Please, baby. You can't leave now." He looks lost at the choice in front of him. He's easier to read than a Dr. Seuss book. You know he doesn't want to be a killer, but he hates disappointing you so much. You'd find it amusing if you weren't so damn impatient. Feh, you don't have all day to stand around while he frets so you make the decision for him. "Don't you wanna make me happy?" This is the straw that breaks his resolve and you know it.

"I want you happy. I-I do." You can hear the truth in his words. He keeps his wide, desperate eyes trained on you even as you pull the knife from your pocket and wrap his hand around it. He doesn't dare look away until after you shove him forward.

To his credit, he doesn't stop moving until he reaches her. You keep your gaze on him, eager to see how this unfolds. He shuffles awkardly from side to side until she finally notices him, finally opens her stupid bitchy mouth to tell him something, and he shrinks back. You aren't sure what she's saying, it's all been relegated to unimportant background noise. All that matters right now is _him._

For a while you don't think he's going to be able to go through with it. He's just standing there, staring down at her with such a horrified expression. There's a part of you that wants to run in and sweep him up in your arms as you shower him with praise. It's okay that he can't do it, really it is. You're not upset at all, you promise. What's important is he tried for you, right? And in any case, isn't it better this way? Now he doesn't have to live with the blood staining those sweet, gentle hands of his... 

_"Shut up!"_

These thoughts are short-lived, however, because he's yelling and that sickened look on his face twists into one of offended rage before your eyes. It looks out of place on his normally placid features and dimly you wonder what she could have possibly said to get that kind of reaction out of him. What combination of words made him scream a garbled, incoherent sound of pure, indignant fury to the tune of a blade thrusting erratically into her chest.

It's not long before the anger dims from his eyes and then he's horrified once more. He takes a step back, then another, and then you're there quick as a whip to put him back together before he breaks anymore. When you say, "'M so proud of you, babe," it's like you flipped a switch. All of his blank horror is replaced with bright pride. You tell him he's a such a good boy as you wipe the tears from his eyes and he just looks so happy. You knock the knife out of his hand and run your tongue over his knuckles and, god, the taste of blood and him is so good.

Fuck, just the sight of him, coated in crimson and simply glowing under your praise makes you hot in ways you didn't know existed. "Want you so bad, baby." And he smiles in agreement before crushing his mouth against yours.

Best day ever.


	11. Chapter 11

**Your name is Dave Strider and life is really looking up.**

Since your boy's first foray into the inner workings of your life you've spent every waking minute preparing him for the next. You show him the proper way to hold a knife without shaking, all the best places to cut. You work tirelessly to rid him of the little bits and pieces of his mind that remain uneasy at the idea of taking a life. For a few days you even attempt to teach him the correct way to school his face, stoic as a stone, but soon give up to focus on more important tips.

By the time you get another girl up on the chopping block, you know he's ready. There's not nearly as much hesitation this time as he finishes her just like you want. And when he turns to you for approval you give him all he could ask for and more.

You've trained him well and it's glorious.

\---

There's a method your madness. You don't go hunting very often, once a month at the most, and you never, ever snatch someone from the same area. Most of your victims are the hopeless, the helpless, the washed-up, strung-out daughters of the night. It's better that way, keeps you out of the papers. So a few whores go missing every now and then, so what? No one gives a damn.

These are always solitary endeavors. You absolutely refuse to take him out with you. There are too many variables at large for you to risk it. His reaction time isn't the best, what if he gets hurt? What is he gets caught? What if he gets you caught? What if- _what if he runs at the first whiff of freedom?_ You can't risk that, you just can't, no matter how paranoid it makes you sound. So no, he stays locked up safe in his room until you're ready for him. If he's upset about being left at home, he doesn't let it show.

Besides, your boy's always got a backstage pass to the most important part.

You love to watch him work. It's equal parts amusing and intoxicating. He always tries to set his face into an impassive mask, like you do, and he always fails to wind up looking anything less than a nervous wreck.

But it works out in the end, god does it ever work out. You like to send him in alone while you hover in the doorway out of sight because even better than his reactions are the ones of the girls. Babe's not all hard lines and angles like you are. No, he's soft and curvy and expressive, all "so sorrys" and "oh dears" as he frets around them, nothing at all like they're expecting and they fall all over themselves, babbling like babies, full of hope that he's there to save their miserable little lives. 

You think best part is the way their faces fall as he reveals the blade gripped lightly in his hand.

You're pretty sure he thinks the best part is when the screaming stops.

\---

Nobodies are safer but sometimes you can't help but snatch a higher-class honey. You never make a plan to grab one -hell, you rarely ever see one at the places you frequent- but every so often she'll walk past. Some painted, little daddy's girl who thinks she has the run of the place just because her shoes are worth more than most people's entire outfits. And you can't help but want to shatter that long held pride.

Hence, the pretty blonde currently residing in your chair.

You found her walking airily down a deserted street (you're faintly sure that it's the same street on the edge of the alley you found your boy, funny how life works like that), nose upturned like some sort of snooty aristocrat and you just knew you had to have her. When you slid up next to her, oozing charm, she ignores you like you're nothing.

She finds you a lot harder to ignore once you slam her against the wall, rag pressed neatly over her mouth and nose.

\---

It's been forty minutes. Forty minutes since you left her choking and bloody for your baby to finish off. She was a snarky broad alright, just like you suspected, but it wasn't long at all before she came to terms with her end. If you really thought about it, you'd almost say it was too easy to get her to that point, but you aren't. What you are thinking it about is how it's been _forty fucking minutes_ and he should be more than done right now.

God what is taking him so long? He's should have been out the door and in your arms like half an hour ago. With an exasperated sigh you head down the hall and fling the door open with the expectation of finding him staring transfixed at the patterns the blood splatter had formed on the floor. He liked to do that sometimes, a weird habit, to be sure, but one you didn't really mind.

What you weren't expecting was to find him clutching his head and shaking at her side.

"John?" You hear her voice, her stupid, ugly voice calling your boy by an equally stupid, ugly name and fuck. No. No this isn't happening. She can't know that name, _she can't!_ "John, it's okay." That bitch just needs to shut up. She's going to ruin everything!

Mouth set in a hard line, you storm across the room and spin him around to face you. He manages to choke out your name before collapsing into your arms. dammitdammitdammit. With a glare, you turn towards the girl, "What did you do to him?"

"The better question is what did you do?" Her voice is colder than it should be considering her current circumstances and her violet gaze is particularly steady for someone who's lost so much blood. It makes you uncomfortable. "He's certainly changed since the last time I laid eyes on him."

"S'none of your business," you shoot back, eyes narrowing. "Besides, you aren't really in a position to ask questions of me now are you?" This is stupid. You aren't about to stand here and have a fucking pointless conversation with a dead girl. And you won't have to once you manage to pry this knife out your boy's iron grip.

"Yes, but John-" That's as far as she gets before you manage to drag the blade swiftly across her throat and shut her up for good. Stupid tramp. She doesn't get to call him that! Nobody does.

Now that the distraction she provided is out of the way you turn back towards him. He looks so pathetic as he tries to catch his breath -he's been hyperventilating pretty much this whole time- but with a sense of relief you see that's he's calmed down at least a bit. But that's not the most serious issue at the moment. 

His gaze wavers between you and her body. It's pained and somewhere deep down you think you see a flash of recognition. shitshit. This is a train wreck. He can't start remembering this, dammit! You had to do something fast before you lose him. 

It seems like ages before either of you work up the nerve to speak and when he finally does his voice is such a stuttering, faltering mess that you can barely understand him. "Did I...? Dave. I think, I think I knew...her?"

"Don't be stupid!" Your response is a bit harsher than you intended, but this is extremely important. Gotta keep your head in the game. Gotta keep him focused on youyouyou. "She was obviously lying, baby. That's all they do, all they ever do. They can't help it." You draw him closer, one hand sliding under his chin to keep his eyes on you while the other stays busy smoothing down his hair. There's a hollow pain in your chest you can't explain. "Don't let her trick you, baby."

"B-but." 

There's still a sense of hesitancy around him, but you force yourself to remain calm. Still, you can't help but notice a hint of desperation in your voice as you continue. "Who you gonna believe, huh? Some broad I yanked off the street or me? C'mon, babe, would I lie to you?"

"No," for a moment he sounds defeated in a way you haven't heard since way back when he was still fighting against you, but you're sure that's just because of all the crying, "No, of course n-not." He takes a step forward and buries his face in your chest while his hands claw weakly at your back. "You'd never do something like that. Mmh, I love you so much."

"'Love you too, babe." You let him hold you as long as he need to. 

The next time he looks over at the body, he treats it with the same indifference he'd treat any other. The empty feeling goes away as relief washes over you. He's still yours.

And with that, everything's back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bluh, i reeeeeeeeally need to finish writing chapter 12. :T


	12. Chapter 12

**Your name is Dave Strider and your head hurts.**

These last few months have been hell on your nerves. You'd heard it through the grapevine that the cops might be on to you. Well, not _you_ per se, but your presence in the red light districts of the surrounding areas. 

So you gotta lay low for a while until the whole thing blows over. S'not that big a deal really. These sorts of investigations never last very long. After all, the taxpayers hate to see their precious money wasted on those whores, especially since what you're doing boils down to a public service.

You just have to deal with the crippling boredom that comes with not being able to express yourself. You can do it.

\---

Except you can't do it. The nothingness is killing you. You buzz frantically around the building, the city, trying your damnedest to burn off this frenetic energy coursing through your veins. Once, you pass your Bro chilling on the couch with a beer and a magazine, cool as a cucumber, and you wonder how he does it. He's taking time off too, but you can barely tell the way he's acting. God, he's so much better at handling this sort of stress than you are.

Even your baby has stopped pretending to believe you when you tell him nothing's wrong. Not that the reason is all that well hidden, he just continues to labor under the belief that talking out issues makes them magically disappear. Always has. It'd almost be endearing if you weren't about to explode.

Ignoring his persistent questions, you card a hand through his hair and try to focus on something other than your growing boredom. You love his hair. It's soft and cool beneath your fingers and such a lovely, muted shade of black, but it's getting too long and you don't like that. Makes him look like one of those silly posers trying to make it big by busking on the street corner. You'll have to trim it down to a more pleasing length soon. It'll reflect badly on you if you let him run around looking like that, see? You tell him as much and he understands, of course. Babe always understands. 

He shifts around from his spot sprawled across your lap and raises his arm up to pap you softly on the cheek. "It'll be okay, Dave, don't worry," he smiles up at you, "just give it a bit more time. That's all you need, right?"

"Right." Of course he's right. It's already been seven months since you cruised through one of your hunting grounds on a mission and it won't be much longer before this whole cop fiasco blows over. You just have to be patient. Just be patientpatientpatient and you and your boy will be back in business together before you know it.

This is just bump in the road and you're gonna get over it in no time.

Together. 

And in the end that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bluh. endings are still really difficult but here it is. thanks to everyone who read and supported me as i went through this. it feels weird to be done after spending so much time on it.
> 
> this is all i got for the main story line, but i really love writing things for this little au, so if there's any scene in particular you'd like elaborated on/situation you'd like to see drop a comment and i might see if i can't cook up a little something.
> 
> <3


End file.
